Chasing Silence
by Bibula
Summary: A one shot sketch of what Connor's life might have been like had Wesley managed to make a clean getaway on That Fateful Night. Because I just really like the idea of the A.I. crew middle aged and bitter.


_**A/N:** Apologies if someone else has already written this AU. It seemed like a relatively obvious one... but a perfunctory search didn't turn anything up so I decided to go with it. To the great despair of all mankind, I'm sure._

When Connor slumped downstairs to find the walls bare and the hall full of suitcases he knew it was going to be one of those days. "Pack your bags, Connor," called Uncle Wes from the kitchen, "We're leaving."

Connor scowled at the suitcases. "Yeah, I kind of figured that one out. _Why_ are we leaving?"

"Because it's not safe here any more." It was what uncle Wes always said.

"_Why_ is it not safe?" It was what Connor always said. They had run this scene through so many times that it had become pure ritual. Yet for all that the words felt dry and threadbare in his mouth, rendered meaningless from overuse, the emotions behind them still stretched with a raw anger and resentment that never seemed to fade. "You ask me to uproot my life, leave behind my friends, my school-- you could at least tell me _why_."

Uncle Wes deigned to make his appearance then, carefully stepping through the maze of half-packed boxes, carrying an unwieldy crate of plates and silverware in his arms. Mysterious, aggravating uncle Wes. Gaunt and grey, but hale for his age and with bright, sharp eyes that missed nothing. "We've discussed this before, Connor. Many times. Now help me load these into the van. You _are_ the one with super-strength after all."

It was more or less common knowledge that uncle Wes was a warlock. He'd take a job as librarian or curator or bookstore clerk -- nothing too high profile -- if it looked like they could settle for a while... but their real income came from sorcery. It would take a while for word to spread, but within a month or two they'd start trickling in. All hours of night and day, distraught men and women, often red-faced, often crying. A love potion, a memory charm, a curse. And uncle Wes would fix them with that icy, dispassionalte stare of his and tell them that magic had a price, and not one you could just put on your credit card and forget about either, and did they really want to do this?

Even if they did he'd sometimes refuse outright. But mostly he did as they asked. They needed the money. Any day they might have to pack their bags again and flee because their mysterious pursuser had picked up their trail. Whoever he was. Uncle Wes never would talk about it, not really.

It didn't take long to move all their things from the apartment to the van. They'd worked this bit down to a ritual as well. Connor heaved a heavy box of books into the back. He scowled as he dropped it into the van's upholstered trunk. Books full of demons and magicks and other things Connor wished he didn't have to know about. The books were one of the few constants in Connor's life, trailing him and uncle Wes from haunt to haunt like a gaggle of old ghosts with nowhere else to go.

He was fond of those books in a wretched kind of way. The only times he could really remember bonding with uncle Wes were bent over these books, tentatively sounding out hieroglyphics while the old man waxed poetical over the crucial subtleties of translation. Uncle Wes hadn't exactly been the most emotionally engaged of guardians, Connor knew. Not that he hadn't tried in his own clumsy, studied way -- hesitant eyes broken with an awkward, dead longing -- but there was always a distance there, a strict precaution that was more schoolmaster than indulgent relative. A reluctance to act too much of a parent, as if somehow he didn't feel he had the right.

The weapons went in the back seat, covered over with a musty old blanket. Easy to grab hold of but unlikely to stir the curiosity of any inconvenient passers-by. It was an impressive arsenal, spanning several centuries worth of military technology. Crossbows, battle-axes, rifles, pole-arms, stakes, swords, and some kind of bizarre prototype missile launcher uncle Wes had accepted from one of his clients in lieu of payment -- and that was just the top layer, left out for easy access in case of emergencies. Connor had trained for long hours under uncle Wes's patient, demanding stare until he had mastered them all, arquebus to zweihander.

He had been granted exceptional gifts, uncle Wes had told him time and time again, gifts that made it possible for him to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. It was his responsibility to use those gifts and use them well. Today that apparently meant using his miraculous strength to force the trunk door closed over the overflowing heap of miscellaneous baggage they'd managed to accumulate over their years of travel.

As they drove down the dusty highway, shedding yet another peaceful small town existence like old rattlers shedding their skins, uncle Wes punched the buttons of the van's cassette player and eased back into the driver's seat. The all too familiar strains of his favorite Cat Stevens tape buzzed over the van's decrepit speakers.

Connor moaned. "This _again_? Can't we play some real music? Some Limp Bizkit or Korn or--"

Uncle Wes looked pained. "No." He didn't need to elaborate. This was not a new dispute either.

"Well then maybe--"

"No."

Connor sighed in exaggerated exasperation and slouched back into his seat. The world outside the car zipped by, flat and dull and endless. It was almost restful watching the car eat up mile after mile of empty landscape, just letting the constant change wash over him like a dreamless slumber. But as soon as he tried to focus on any individual detail the speed quickly overwhelmed him and he started feeling sick.

"_Show me show me show me the way,_" the van's cassette player scratched on, an old memory worn thin from repeating, "_before they grind me down and bleach me grey, send me power not to be afraid..._"

The tape had been rendered almost unintelligible by overuse, but it hardly mattered. Connor still knew the words off by memory, they both did. He scowled into the fleeting landscape. Who even used cassette players these days?

The gas meter started running low after the first hundred miles or so. They pulled into a little gas station in the middle of nowhere, a sun-bleached oasis adrift in an endless, grey summer haze. Connor gave the windshield a perfunctory wash while uncle Wes filled the tank. They shuffled into the attached convenience shop when they were done. The rattling air conditioner provided a welcome respite from the heat and fumes of the station itself.

Uncle Wes froze. Connor followed his gaze. There was a woman there, looked like she was in her early forties. Slender and poised, chatting amiably with the cashier in a gentle southern accent. Uncle Wes grabbed his arm. "Connor. We're going. Now."

Connor scowled. "We can't just go. You have to pay for gas. It's a little thing called not breaking the law."

Wes rifled through his wallet, brought out a wad of cash. He always paid cash. "You pay. I'll wait in the car. Don't dawdle." He made to scurry out the door, but it was too late. The woman turned from the register and saw them. She frowned, then her eyes widened in shock. "It can't be... _Wesley_? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

His uncle looked visibly torn between ducking for cover behind the magazine stand and sprinting for the door. "You must be mistaken."

She shook her head in disbelief. "It _is_ you. My god, after all these years... and that must be... _Connor_?"

Uncle Wes nodded almost imperceptibly. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her hand went to her mouth to stifle a sob. "Connor..." she went to him, put a hand on his shoulder as if to make sure he was more than just a figment. "It really is him, isn't it?" She turned again to uncle Wes, thin face suddenly livid. "How could you do that to us? To Angel?"

Uncle Wes held her stare, but just barely."I had no choice. Angel was going to kill him."

"Angel's going to kill you if he finds you. I have half a mind to kill you myself. God, Wes, if you could have seen what you did to him." Her voice shook with rage. A tired, worn out, weary rage like a fire that had smoldered so long underground it no longer remembered the shape of flame. "He couldn't think of anything else. I thought... I thought he must have killed you by now. He tortured Holtz for days, trying to find out what happened. How is it he hasn't found you yet?"

Wes looked grim. "Magic. Anti-detection spells." He pushed up a sleeve to reveal a string of creeping black tattoos. "And a healthy dose of paranoia." He frowned, his voice suddenly soft, almost wistful. "Fred, what are you doing here? Are you okay? Are you and Gunn--?"

She shook her head mutely, lips pressed tight, not trusting herself to speak.

Uncle Wes tried again, voice careful as kid gloves, his smile a hopeful sketch in the dark. "I, ah, read your article in Physical Review Letters, you know. The multi-dimensional boson entanglement in, ah, a quantum manifold. I can't honestly say I followed all of it, but from what I could tell it seemed like an inspired application of Heim theory..."

She gaze snapped irritably to the side, brushing the complement away with a glance. "Don't." she said softly. "Don't pretend like it still is like how it used to be. It ain't. There are just... some things that can't ever be forgiven," uncle Wes opened his mouth to protest but she kept talking right over him, "no matter how good the intentions behind them. What you did to him, Wes... You couldn't have hurt him more if you'd put a stake through his heart yourself."

There was a silence then, long and uncomfortable.

Connor was the first to break it. "What did you _do_?" he hissed in uncle Wes's direction. "Who is this?"

The woman's gaze hardened as she looked from uncle Wes's pale, strained face to Connor's questioning one and back again. "What have you told him? What _haven't_ you told him?"

Uncle Wes bowed his head ever so slightly against the onslaught of questions. "I... nothing. He doesn't know anything. I thought it better that way."

Her mouth twitched in bitter parody of laughter, her blazing brown eyes heavy with the weight of years and disillusionment. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You were never much of one for telling people close to you any more than they absolutely needed to know. No, you were more the type to lie to your friends, beat Lorne senseless, and go driving off into the night with your friend's stolen baby under your arm, weren't you?"

"What is she talking about?" demanded Connor.

Uncle Wes grabbed Connor's arm. His movements were distracted and violent, his voice harsh with leashed emotion. "It's time to go, Connor. Come on."

"You can't keep running forever," she continued, voice rising to call them back, but Uncle Wes just kept walking, dragging Connor along with him. Connor could have stopped him, he was strong enough certainly, and while uncle Wes was by no means frail, he wasn't exactly in the prime of his youth either. But there was something in the set of uncle Wes's expression that scared him. A tightness in the jaw, a furrow in the brow, a bleakness in the eyes. It was an expression he'd seen a few times before, when uncle Wes was engaged in some particularly unsavory rite. It was the look he wore as he washed the still drying blood of an animal sacrifice from his hands, sleeves pushed back to reveal the winding path of ink that ran beneath the skin of his arms.

The woman called after him. "He'll find you! You'll grow old and careless and one of these days he's gonna find you. Connor's his _son_, Wes. He's not gonna stop searching for him, not ever."

"Wait, wait. She's talking about that psycho who's always chasing after us, right?" stammered Connor. "Is that what she's saying? That I'm his-- he's my-- You've gotta be kidding me!"

"We're going," insisted uncle Wes, mouth a flat, unsympathetic line. "Now."

Uncle Wes's expression as they drove away from the little station was a Gordian tangle of repressed emotion Connor didn't know how or where to begin to unravel. But then uncle Wes's emotional state was not high on his list of priorities just now. "Is what she said true?" he asked, and the question sounded blunt and over-loud in the oppressive silence uncle Wes was emanating like a beacon. "Is the man we're running from really... my father? What-- _Why_?"

Uncle Wes just stared into the distance, watching the dashed dividing lines of the highway streak past like days and weeks and months. Connor wondered if he was just going to ignore the question completely.

His eyes never left the road but his voice rose, simple and somber. "Because I had to. Because no one else would have."

It wasn't an answer, not really, but for now it was the best that Connor was going to get.


End file.
